


V.M. Cemetery

by VenusMonstrosa



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:34:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22591837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenusMonstrosa/pseuds/VenusMonstrosa
Summary: Welcome to V.M. Cemetery, where my unfinished and discontinued WIPs have been laid to rest, their remains available for your viewing pleasure. Just because they're dead doesn't mean they're gone!Each chapter will be a different WIP. Different warnings/ratings (if applicable) will be included in the notes for each. Most WIPs will include point-form notes that fill in blank scenes and/or explain the endings.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34





	V.M. Cemetery

**Author's Note:**

> This is my untitled bartender AU. This is actually the very first fic I ever wrote for stucky fandom, but as you can see, I never finished it, so I never posted it. I've been adding to it little by little for the past two years, and I just can't find it in me to really commit anymore. It's unedited and not polished at all, but I wanted to throw this up here first for posterity. It's pretty incredible to look back at my old writing and see how much I've improved since then. I think.
> 
> **Tags:** Bartender AU, Bartender Bucky, Clueless Steve, alcohol/drinking, pining, cocktails with dirty names.
> 
> Also, every single drink named here is real!

Bucky’s worked in worse places than the Widow’s Bite. It’s small and trendy, exclusive without being pretentious, attracted hip young professionals, and as good a gig as he ever hoped to land. Natasha started there as a bottle service girl when it was still called the Red Room, a front for the Russian mafia where the management and patrons consisted of lecherous old men who had more money than they knew what to do with. According to her, there had been “an accident of an undetermined nature” and “the whereabouts of the previous owners were classified”, so the property went up for sale and she snatched it off the market the same day. She was able to keep her girls, but with the mob-hired security gone, she had scrambled to find new muscle, even if it meant scoping them out and recruiting them herself.

It was at Hydra, an unruly gentlemen’s club at the edge of town with a reputation for having ill-tempered staff and watered-down booze, that she slipped a business card into Bucky’s pocket. He was still a bouncer then, broad and intimidating with a sinister metal prosthetic, fresh back from overseas where he left his arm and easy-going smiles behind.

“You can do better than this,” she had said vaguely.

He quit the next day, and called her the day after that.

“I don’t want to work the door,” he stated gruffly. He was done being nothing but a gleaming vibranium fist, a cold glare, a furrowed brow.

It was met with silence, then a noise of curiosity. “Have any experience bartending?”

“No.” He paused. “Not yet,” he added.

She chuckled softly. “Good answer, James. Come by around two, and wear black.”

That had been two years ago.

It took months of slippery glasses and broken bottles until he found his groove, when style and efficiency levelled out and became second nature. He learned to smile again, to laugh and to flirt with a sly wink and honeyed words, not just because of the tips, but because he liked to.

And also, because of the tips.

But there are parts of being a soldier he’ll never be able to shake. In unfamiliar places, he immediately seeks all exits. Sudden and loud noises put him on high alert. He eyes people up, checking for weapons and abnormal behaviour. The fact that he’s observant to a fault, combined with being painfully single, is how he ends up wiping the same glass for a solid three minutes when Tall, Blond, and Handsome walks in.

The man is wearing a bespoke suit in a deep navy, the white collared shirt underneath unbuttoned enough to show a hint of the creamy skin of his broad chest. He hangs around the entrance for a while, checking his watch and looking around with intent. Looking for someone, likely, but he’s not rushing, so he isn’t late. When his gaze lands on Bucky, it seems to linger for a second before he looks away, with a trace of a smile. He disappears in the crowd soon after, and before Bucky can find him again, the shot glass is pulled out of his hands and set down on the bar top.

“I think it’s dry, now,” Wanda mutters sarcastically, pouring tequila into it to add it to the other dozen shots on a tray. No sooner had she put it down when her twin brother, Pietro, appears to grab the tray and deliver it to whoever is trying to ruin their lives that night.

Bucky gives a half-hearted shrug, unapologetic, and goes back to taking orders, only half-watching out for the man again. He doesn’t have to wait long, as the guy soon winds his way across the floor and takes a seat at the bar. Wanda is in the middle of mixing a complicated cocktail, and Darcy, at the far end of the bar, is busy wiping down the countertop, so Bucky doesn’t feel so bad shuffling over a little quicker than normal. He self-consciously tugs his sleeve down over his left arm before he greets him with a nod. “Hey, man. What can I get you?”

Up close, he’s just as arrestingly handsome, and much easier to read. The way he fidgets, bites down on his plush bottom lip, hems and haws before asking for whatever’s on tap. He’s nervous, unsure of himself, glancing at the people approaching the bar on either side of him, as if expecting someone.

_ He’s waiting for a date. _

Bucky tries not to sigh out loud. He maintains his smile, hands him his beer, and moves on to the next patron. The man stays in his periphery, nursing his drink and checking his watch. Fifteen slow, cruel minutes tick by and he still hasn’t finished his beer, nor has his date shown up. As soon as he gets a free moment, Bucky makes the executive decision to pull some bottles down, layer a little Irish cream over butterscotch Schnapps, and slide it over to him.

“What—” the man looks at the shot glass, then up at Bucky. “Sorry, I didn’t order this.”

“I know. It’s on me.” Bucky smirks. “Cock Sucking Cowboy.”

The dim lights do nothing to hide the blush that creeps up the man’s neck. “Excuse me?”

Bucky laughs. “That’s what it’s called. Try it.” He tucks his hair back behind his ear and the man’s eyes follow the movement. It’s a dirty trick, he knows it, drawing anyone’s attention to the sharp line of his jaw. “Thought you could use something sweet if you, uh, got stood up or something.”

He shakes his head a little, an uneasy smile pulling at his lips. “Oh, no, I didn’t get stood up. I’m just really early.”

“Oh,” Bucky grimaces. “Wow, sorry, I totally misjudged. That was out of line.”

“It’s okay,” he says good-naturedly. “I might still get stood up, we’ll see.” He checks his watch again. “Hey, Natasha Romanoff is here, right?”

He blinks, shoulders tensing up. “Nat? She might still be around.” Bucky shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t. But he needs to know. “Is she your… Are you waiting for her?”

The hot guy laughs, loud and sharp. “Oh, no, it’s not like that. We’re just friends. I met her at a charity gala a month ago, and she commissioned me for a painting.”

“Oh yeah? You an artist?”

“Yeah, I co-own a gallery with Pepper Potts, as well. I don’t know if you know her, she’s—”

“That philanthropist angel who married the asshole billionaire scientist who designed my fucking arm,” Bucky teases. “That’s incredible.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” The man says humbly, but smiles all the same, and holds his hand out to shake. “Steve Rogers.”

Bucky hesitates, then slides his metal fingers into Steve’s open palm. To his credit, Steve doesn’t bat a single long, fluttery eyelash.

“James Barnes,” he says. “Or Bucky.”

“Bucky,” Steve repeats. He likes the sound of his name in Steve’s mouth and is grateful that his metal hand cannot sweat the way his flesh one does.

Despite the fact that he could easily hold onto this warm, strong man for several hours, Bucky withdraws to get back to serving. “Nat might come out onto the floor at some point, just sit tight.”

He has to turn back to the other patrons, but glances over at Steve when he can, who has pulled out his phone with a slight frown. He sips at his beer until it’s gone, then looks at the shot that Bucky left for him.

“Can you take it?” he says with a wry smile, once he can make his way back over. “Or should I?” he drops his voice and can’t help but wink.

It’s so easy getting Steve worked up.

It’s not so easy to graciously bow out when another man appears at Steve’s side and takes his attention away.

They disappear to a table somewhere, and Bucky can no longer keep an eye on them. Whether that’s a good or bad thing, he hasn’t decided yet, but a twenty-dollar bill appears at the top of the glass tip jar nearest to him, so at least there’s that.

-

A few hours later, the crowd starts to thin out. By the time they announce last call, it’s clear Steve left. His date is gone, too. Bucky pushes it from his mind and goes through the motions of cleaning up, locking up, balancing the cash registers and distributing the tips. And if he moves a little slower than usual, no one calls him out for it. The rest of the staff start saying their goodbyes and he waves them off to go ahead without him.

After there’s literally nothing left he can do to procrastinate further, he finds Natasha in her office in the back. Her heels are off and her hair is up as she looks over the night’s paperwork, with the end of a pen in her mouth.

He drums his fingers on the doorframe. “Some guy was looking for you.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Who?”

“I think he said his name was Steve,” he says, as neutrally as possible.

“Hmm.” The corner of her mouth ticks up. “Was he with someone?”

He exhales. “Yeah.”

“They leave together?”

“How would I know?”

She leans back in her chair, tapping the pen against her lip and watching Bucky closely, almost amused. He folds his arms over his chest and stands a little taller, making a point not to wither under her gaze.

“Okay,” she says finally. “Thanks. Get home safe.”

He wants to ask more, but knows when he’s been dismissed. And it would mean giving her something that somehow, in some way, she can use against him later. He knows her too well by now. Bucky pulls his leather jacket on and catches a cab to his apartment, where he can shove leftover Chinese food into his mouth, jerk off, and pass out in bed in peace. In the end, it’s just another Saturday night.

He forgets about Steve three days later.

-

But the weekend rolls back around, and Steve returns.

Alone.

He’s in another suit, a dark charcoal grey number that makes Bucky a little woozy. Nat doesn’t really give the bartenders much of a dress code besides all black, but Bucky starts wondering if he should put more effort into his attire, beyond faded jeans and henleys. He doesn’t even think he owns a tie.

But Steve does, in a bold royal blue that Bucky wants to grab and pull towards him. He doesn’t, however, because he’s a professional, and instead greets him as casually as he can muster. “Hey, Stevie. What’ll it be?”

He runs a hand through his already artfully tousled hair and shrugs. “Something with whiskey.”

Bucky grabs a glass and tosses together a Jack and Coke. Steve knocks it back with a grimace, motioning for a second. Bucky raises his eyebrows, but pours another anyway. He drinks this one slower, chewing on the ice as he checks his phone.

Bucky serves up three more cocktails before he makes his way back over to him, who’s since finished his drink. “Another refill?” Bucky offers.

He scrunches his nose up. “I don’t think it’s going to help.”

“Damn,” he murmurs. “You runnin’ from something?”

Steve huffs a laugh and glances at his wristwatch. “I should be.”

_ Another date? Or the same guy from last time? _ Bucky puts his restless hands to work and clears his glass, gets a fresh one, and fills it with water. “So. Didn’t get stood up last weekend?”

“No, actually. But I wish I did.” He traces the rim of the glass with his index finger while Bucky tries not to shiver. “He kept talking about himself, barely let me get a word in, then told me I need to pursue a ‘real career’ before I ‘get any older’.” With a snort, he shoves his phone back into his pocket. “I’m sorry, you don’t need to hear all this.”

“Fuck that. You’re worth fifteen of him. And anyone who doesn’t see that, doesn’t deserve to buy you overpriced booze here.” Bucky grins and tells himself it has nothing to do with the fact that his date went badly. That would be a terrible thing to find joy in. Terrible.

“Thanks,” Steve’s eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles. “Here’s hoping this one isn’t half as bad.”

Bucky forces himself to nod while he grabs a few bottles and puts together two shots of Liquid Cocaine. “I’ll drink to that.”

Soon after, Steve is stolen away to another back table again, and Bucky takes five more shots of straight Jaeger before the night is up.

-

The next Saturday, Bucky wears new slim fit trousers and a crisp black button-down, for no particular reason that he would ever admit to. Clean shaven with his hair down, swept over one shoulder in soft waves, he gets catcalled and whistled at by the servers and bottle girls no less than eight times while they set up to open. He happily endures it, though, because it’s worth it for the way Steve’s eyes roam over him when he takes a seat. “Hey, Buck. Gin and tonic?”

Bucky salutes with two fingers and starts preparing the drink. “How was bachelor number two?”

“Pretty great, but as it turns out, not much of a bachelor,” he smiles ruefully.

Bucky winces in sympathy as he slides the glass to him. “Ouch.”

“The good ones are always taken,” he muses.

Ain’t that the truth.

Bucky busies himself with the other patrons waiting on drinks. He still grins and flirts as much as he can get away with, despite his not-great mood, but eventually returns to Steve before he loses his nerve. He combines a couple things into a shaker with a healthy amount of vodka, straining them into a double shot glass and pushing it across the bar top.

Steve eyes it suspiciously. “That’s a lot.”

“You can handle it, big guy.”

Resigned, Steve downs it, then coughs into his fist.

Bucky tilts his head. “Did I just give you your first Screaming Orgasm?”

He coughs a little harder.

“Need to wait twenty minutes before the next one?” he grins salaciously.

“Ha-ha,” Steve says dryly, a shy laugh bubbling up beneath it.

“So,” Bucky clears away the empty glass. “Got high hopes for tonight’s date?” he tries for levity, but feels dangerously close to toeing the line past casual conversation to invasions of privacy. There’s still a tension in the way Steve carries himself, but he doesn’t seem as nervous and uncertain anymore. It’s good to see him loosening up. He smiles easier when he does.

Steve sits back and sighs. “Maybe. I think so? I mean, I’d like to trust Natasha, but I don’t think she really knows what she’s doing.”

The glass in Bucky’s metal hand creaks as he tightens his grip on it. “She’s setting you up with these guys?”

Steve ducks his head and scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah. She’s not really someone you can say no to.”

“Yeah, that’s Nat for ya,” Bucky mutters, taking a deep breath. He has to tear himself away from the conversation to tend to the other guests around him. By the time things quiet down, Steve is gone again, with another twenty-dollar bill in the tip jar. This time, he’s in a booth closer to the bar, so Bucky has a front row seat to watch another dude make Steve laugh. After closing, Bucky slinks off to the find Scott in the kitchen, who pats him on the back and lets him his feelings in the form of a peanut butter sundae.

-

_ Surely he won’t be back _ , Bucky thinks, not when he looked like he was having a great time last week. But he’s sitting at the bar the next Saturday, like clockwork.

Steve doesn’t go into detail about these dates, just mentions some vague things that allude to them not having gone well; their work schedules weren’t compatible, he doesn’t recycle, his cologne made Steve sneeze. Bucky doesn’t want to ask further. No point in looking a gift horse in the mouth.

Steve orders a beer but Bucky hands him a bright red shot instead, explains that it is a Red-Headed Slut, then further explains that he did not make up that name. “But I did have red hair for a little while in high school.”

“No kidding?”

“Yeah, I went through a phase, thought it was pretty punk rock.”

“In high school, I was five feet tall, had coke bottle glasses, and terrible asthma.”

Bucky doesn’t even to hide his smile. “I probably should not find that as cute as I do.”

“Cute?” Steve quirks an eyebrow.

Shit. 

Well, he already said it. It was out there. Nothing left to do but double down.

“Yeah, that’s cute as fuck,” Bucky insists. “I woulda pulled your pigtails and everything.”

“And I woulda socked you in the mouth,” Steve laughs. “I had to switch schools twice for fighting.”

“You were scrappy? Even when you were so little?” he blurts it out and immediately cringes at how bad it sounds, but Steve just laughs more. 

“ _ Especially _ when I was so little,” he shrugs. “I didn’t like getting bullied, I didn’t like seeing other kids getting bullied. I figured, if I just gave it my all, if I showed that I wasn’t willing to back down, it might make a difference. In my life or someone else’s.”

“Did it?”

“I mean, I filled up a hundred-page sketchbook during all my detentions in freshman year. That led to an art scholarship, which led to studying in Paris, and now I’m on the board of trustees at the Met,” he says cheekily, with another shrug. 

“You had something to prove,” Bucky leans in, hands braced on the edge of the bar, and gives him an evaluating look. “And you proved it. Very impressive.”

Steve leans in as well, elbows propped up on the tabletop, a smile tugging at his mouth. “What about you, have you been a bartender long?”

“Nah, I kinda ended up here by accident.” As he says it, he glances down at his left hand. “Technically, a lot of accidents.”

When he looks up, there’s no pity in Steve’s eyes, just understanding tinged with a softness that makes it a little harder to breathe. “You don’t have to tell me.” He says gently.

Bucky sets his jaw. “IED, five years ago.” He doesn’t elaborate, but it’s enough to get a nod from Steve. “They recruit you when you’re young, dumb, and broke. Free college, they said, but they make you pay a different way. I wasn’t myself when I came home. Not for a long while.”

“Understandably so,” Steve adds, quietly.

It’s a little too much, a little too deep. In true Bucky fashion, he misdirects, because it’s better than acknowledging something he doesn’t want to look too closely at. “But hey,” He says, easing off the bar and reaching for a few more bottles and a fresh glass. “At least we’re here now.”

Steve snorts, turning his head away. “Cheers to that.”

“Speaking of,” Bucky says with a flourish, presenting Steve with a layered shot.

With a heavy sigh, Steve picks it up and sips at it. “Smooth,” he remarks passively. 

He should look ridiculous, this grown man sipping at a shot of sugary alcohol, smacking his lips like he’s at a fucking wine tasting. But he looks stupidly beautiful and something twists in Bucky’s gut and he can barely keep it together long enough to answer Steve when he asks what it’s called.

“Sit On My Face,” Bucky says earnestly and honestly. “I’m serious,” he declares, and leaves Steve to wonder the intentions behind it as he mixes another drink. 

-

Bucky has figured out that Steve shows up at the bar about thirty minutes before his dates, and always on a Saturday. He orders a drink and they chat about their respective weeks, current events, and workplace grievances. The conversation stays light-hearted and casual, as Bucky’s flirting is usually met with blushing and a change of topics, which just makes him try harder the next time. Steve says he likes to be early to ‘get his bearings’, but Bucky likes to steal that time for himself, especially because it means he gets to ogle Steve in his indecently tight shirts for a while longer. Summer approaches, but the nights still carry a chill, so the suits give way to light sweaters and fitted cardigans that would look dorky on literally anyone else.

And if it inspires Bucky to spend more than thirty dollars on a pair of jeans for once in his life, that’s neither here nor there.

Every Saturday could be the last time he sees Steve, and he knows that. One of these days, whichever lucky bastard he goes out with is going to see him for the intelligent, kind, drop-dead-fucking-gorgeous man he is. He’s even going to laugh at Steve’s terrible jokes, which Bucky can only bring himself to do about half the time. Really, he should be treating every Saturday like their last, but that would mean pulling Steve over the bar and introducing his tongue to Steve’s molars. And that would be an awkward situation for Steve’s ( _ Natasha’s _ ) endless lineup of dates to stumble upon. If there’s anything he kept from overseas that he actually wants to exercise, it’s extremely disciplined self-control, and Steve gives it a proper fucking workout every weekend.

Steve has taken to meeting with his dates at nearby tables, directly and painfully within Bucky’s direct line of sight. Bucky, certain he is being punished for something, resolutely avoids looking at him once he walks away from the bar.

He doesn’t watch how their night plays out, and he doesn’t see them leave, separately or together. It’s none of his business. There isn’t enough ice cream in the world to help him cope with it, besides. So Bucky just smiles and flirts and winks at everyone else like he always does, and its business as usual.

-

When he is not at work, Bucky spends half the time at a boxing gym, and the other half trying to sort his life out. Joining the army gave him purpose and direction for a brief period of time, which he quickly lost when he was honorably discharged and thrust back into the real world. Finding work in New York that he was good at, but didn’t involve long-range sniping, was surprisingly more difficult than he expected.

Working security at Hydra seemed like a blessing that fell right into his lap. Working nights meant he could come home thoroughly exhausted, then fall into a heavy and dreamless sleep that staved off nightmares and curbed his insomnia. There was no forced, friendly banter, no fake smiles with people who looked at him with disgust or pity. His cybernetic arm, the first of its kind at the time of the surgery, was a main feature in a way that made him feel powerful and in control - the option for a skin-like cover came long after he had already become accustomed to the daunting silver plates. The pay was decent, even if his bosses and coworkers were not. They were rough and it only made him rougher, isolated and withdrawn, ignoring his old friends and avoiding his family. He thought he needed the time to cope with coming home and learning how to be a person again.

But that person wasn’t the person he was, or wanted to be.

Now, Bucky reads. He catches up on the movies and shows he missed during his tours. He adopts an old, chubby cat named Dumpling. He buys a second-hand guitar, learns how to cook things that aren’t microwavable, and goes to the VA when he feels up for it.

Little by little, he puts himself together again, and learns to accept the bad with the good. He knows he’s still a little prickly, a little stubborn, but he’s also more patient and has gotten better about thinking before he acts. It might not be the James he was before, but it’s the Bucky he knows he is now.

And the Bucky he is now, is not above begging to keep his Saturday night shift.

“Can’t you put him on Sunday?” he whispers loudly, though the door to Natasha’s office is closed and he’s only a foot away from her. He doesn’t want to disrespect the newest bartender, he really doesn’t. And anyway, he’s doing Charles a favour, because Saturdays are hectic. This is not selfish at all. It’s  _ selfless _ , honestly.

“I already have him working Monday to Wednesday to get him warmed up,” Natasha purses her lips. “I need him to experience a closing shift on a busy night so I can start rotating in more people on the weekends.”

Bucky pales at the thought. “Put him on Friday.”

“The Friday shifts are full.”

“Then give him  _ my _ Friday shift.”

She narrows her eyes. “I’m trying to give you a night off. You haven’t taken one in almost three months.”

“I’ll take one on Friday,” he says petulantly.

Natasha gives him an assessing look. “Fine.”

“Fine,” he echoes with conviction.

“But you’d better spend it doing something relaxing,” she warns.

-

Bucky spends it lightly stalking Steve on social media, creeping through Facebook albums and Instagram posts of art exhibits, his dog, and recent vacations.

It’s harder to watch him walk away the next night with someone else’s hand on his lower back, now that Bucky knows what Steve looks like shirtless under the Hawaiian sun.

Bucky sighs at his empty glass, which once held a Sex On the Beach.

_ If only _ , he thinks.

-

“Creamy Pussy.”

The shot Bucky presents Steve looks like strawberry milk.

Six Saturdays in and Steve still blushes at these terribly named drinks, which is why Bucky still makes them. Circle Jerk, Golden Showers, and Tight Snatch were his personal favourites, and he makes a point of announcing them loudly. By now, he’s running out of suggestive shots, so he spends more time than he should looking up new recipes to practice during the week. He could probably make up some names by now, not that Steve would know better, but he’d rather go the extra mile for that sense of personal pride.

Steve scowls, but knocks it back anyway. “Okay, that one was actually pretty good,” he begrudgingly admits.

Bucky grins, exceptionally pleased with himself. It might also have to do with the fact Steve hasn’t looked at his phone or watch once since he sat down. Who’s to say?

“So, I think I know what your problem is,” Bucky says, mixing him a vodka cran.

“Do tell,” Steve raises his eyebrows.

“Either you’re high-maintenance,” Bucky points at him. “Or you just don’t know what you want in a guy.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says confidently. “Maybe a bit of both? No,  _ definitely _ both.”

Steve chuckles. “I think I’m pretty low-maintenance, and I do know what I want. Natasha just hasn’t set me up with anyone who checks those boxes for me. It’s crazy that she knows so many single gay men though, right?”

“Crazy,” Bucky agrees solemnly, vehemently not caring that Natasha hadn’t thought to include him in that roster.

“Anyway,” Steve continues with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m kind of eager to get this over with. I told her I’ll play along until my birthday, and then I’m out.”

Bucky tries to keep his tone neutral, and not at all deeply curious or slightly panicked. “Is that a while from now?”

“No, thankfully. Then I can go back to being the miserable, lonely workaholic that God intended me to be.”

Bucky clears his throat. “So you won’t be back?”

Steve cracks ice between his teeth before answering. “I hope this doesn’t make me sound like an asshole. But my friends are pretty loyal to other bars and I’m not really that much of a drinker, so...”

_ So he has no reason to come back. _

Bucky curls his fingers on the countertop, the dark wood creaking under his cybernetic grip. “That’s fair.” He nods mechanically. “Whatever happens, just do what makes you happy.”

Steve gives him a doleful smile. “You too, Buck.”

  
  


  * Steve isn’t back the next weekend
  * He isn’t back the weekend after that, either
  * Bucky feels gutted because he never got to properly say goodbye, even though he knew this would eventually happen
  * He brings it up to Natasha, asking about “her friend Steve who used to come by a lot”, and she says she hasn’t spoken to him in a while because “he’s apparently pretty busy these days” 
  * RIP BUCKY...



  
  


An American flag bandana.

An American flag hoodie.

A pair of American flag cowboy boots.

“These are too boring. Too basic.”

From her place in his lap, Dumpling flicks her tail in agreement.

Bucky gives her a gentle scratch and continues to scroll through Amazon, sitting up in bed. The Fourth of July is a couple days away, and with every holiday, they’re actually encouraged to wear something ‘festive’ to work. With the recent heartbreak he is trying to pretend he doesn’t feel, he hadn’t had the energy to shop for something. He was busy going through pints of Ben and Jerry’s, thinking of wasted chances and lost time.

His eyes linger on American flag sequined booty shorts that could get to his house the next day, with Prime delivery.

“Too much?”

Dumpling nips at his finger.

“Okay, fine,” he grumbles. He’s looking at product reviews when Natasha calls, and puts her on speaker. “Would you let me wear an American flag crop top to work?” he asks, in lieu of a greeting.

_ “You can wear whatever you want under a tux, as long as it doesn’t ruin the lines of the jacket.” _

“A tux?” Bucky clicks to the next page. “Hey, they do have an American flag tux.”

_ “Jesus Christ. Don’t. There’s actually going to be a change of plans for Thursday.” _

“Party pooper,” he minimizes the window. “Okay, what’s up?”

_ “We’re hosting a private event instead. A birthday party.” _

He furrows his brow. “Ugh. Does it need to be that night?” Private parties never tip as well as drunkards celebrating a holiday.

_ “Yes, that’s Steve’s actual birthday.” _

“It’s—” Bucky inhales sharply. “That’s his birthday?”

_ “Isn’t that what I just said?” _ He can just hear her rolling her eyes.  _ “Pepper Potts called, apparently the venue they originally wanted pulled out last minute. It’s still going to be on theme, but more understated. She’ll cover the decorations and catering, we’re supplying the entertainment and open bar.” _

“Oh. That’s…”

_ “You’re cool with working this event, right? We’re covered for set up, so come dressed.” _

“Sure. Yeah. Yes.” Dumpling yowls, her fur caught in the plates of his hand where he’s accidentally gripped her tail, then hops off his lap. “Do I really need a penguin suit, though?”

_ “It’s black tie, even for staff,”  _ Natasha says smoothly, and of course, it would be. Steve probably sleeps in what could pass as ‘business casual’.  _ “You could get away with a little red, if you want.” _

“Okay,” he flops back onto his bed. “Will Pepper Potts cover my credit card bill, too?”

Natasha snorts.  _ “Don’t forget shoes. If you show up in combat boots, so help me god.” _

-

He doesn’t forget the shoes, even though they cost as much as his rent. The tuxedo is worse, the price tag looking more like a phone number, but at least he’s got something decent to wear for upcoming events, weddings, brunch, grocery shopping, or his own funeral; the possibilities are endless, and he intends on getting his money’s worth. 

  * Bucky shows up at the Widow’s Bite, and surprise! The rest of the staff are in their black uniforms! Natasha helpfully informs him that he is _not_ attending the party as staff, but as a _guest_ (to his absolute horror) 
  * Steve arrives shortly after, naturally early to his own fucking birthday party, and tells Bucky it’s really good to see him again. They hug! Bucky doesn’t cry! 
  * They don’t get any time to talk though, because Steve has to greet the other guests and everyone has long winded speeches and there’s a lot of champagne toasting, there’s a live band, and Bucky meets forty-nine other people who love Steve, yet none of them appear to be the guy Steve was last on a date with. In fact, none of the other attendees are anyone Natasha set Steve up with
  * Natasha makes herself conveniently scarce during this whole ordeal. Bucky is afraid to drink lest he drunkenly confess something. Or cry
  * The guests eventually go up to the rooftop to watch the fireworks, except Bucky, who slips away to Natasha’s office for somewhere quiet to breathe
  * A few minutes later, someone knocks at the door - Steve!
  * He reiterates how good it is to see Bucky, wanted to talk to him some more, realized that he probably wouldn’t be interested in the fireworks and then asked Natasha where he would’ve disappeared to
  * They talk but it’s awkward: Bucky asks if he had a good birthday, Steve says yes, he didn’t want to admit how much he needed this since he’d been so busy the past few weeks, neither have much else to say after that
  * Bucky figures he’ll risk it for the biscuit because who knows when he’ll see him again, asks Steve about that last date and says he assumes it worked out this time 
  * Steve kinda laughs it off and says yeah, actually, it worked out, the guy was great - everything he wanted, on paper - and they saw each other three more times before Steve called it off
  * Bucky is surprised by that, but Steve shrugs, explains that it wasn’t fair to the dude because he kept thinking about going back to the Widow’s Bite every Saturday to get a stupidly-named drink from the biggest flirt in New York 
  * There are probably a thousand great guys in the city, but there’s only one Bucky :’) 
  * (kiss kiss smooch smooch) (perhaps a handie) 
  * Once people head back down to the bar, Steve and Bucky eventually join them all. Maybe holding hands. Birthday Boys deserve to have their hands held
  * Natasha is like oh is this a thing now :) And Bucky is like yes, no thanks to you >:( And she’s like au contraire :) Why do you think I made Steve come here, specifically, and offer him a wide range of men so that he feels more certain about his decision to choose you :) And also to give you two the illusion that this meeting was organic and not at all meticulously orchestrated by yours truly :) Happy birthday *throws confetti* 
  * Now, Bucky wants a drink, but Steve asks if he can mix something for him, because he’s been practicing (cute!)
  * Bucky watches Steve grab the bottles, getting redder and redder as he realizes what drink he’s putting together - Steve presents it with a big grin: “A Sloe Comfortable Screw Against the Wall”
  * They go back to Steve’s after the party. For a slow comfortable screw against the wall.



**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/VenusMonstrosa) or [tumblr](http://venusmonstrosa.tumblr.com).


End file.
